When you're working on something big, the most difficult part is always the middle bit. Starting a project is easy -- you're full of new ideas, untapped energy, and naively optimistic notions about scheduling. And you'd be surprised what kind of spiritual reserves become available as the finish heaves into view. But the middle is a drag.

If you'll indulge another cycling metaphor: drawing a (slow) comic is like riding (slowly) in the Tour de France. The peloton has left you behind, the cheering crowds that lined the streets of the last hamlet can no longer be heard. The next town lies somewhere over the horizon, and the surrounding countryside does not change. There is no way to mark your progress, nor are there other racers against whom to measure your pace. The motorcycle-mounted camera has disappeared with the fast riders, so you don't even get the satisfaction of knowing your struggle is being shared.

There's just the sound of your breath to distract you from the pain in your legs. Occasionally, you pass a lone spectator who has waited patiently by the roadside to clap for you. There's also the rare heckler, who jeers as you wobble past.

But no matter how much the world begins to feel like a demense-covered treadmill, you remind yourself that the finish line is up there somewhere. It may be far away, but every turn of the pedals brings you a little bit closer. It took Lance exactly the same number of foot-pumps to get there as it'll take you.

The only way to fail is to stop.

I'm somewhere in the middle of issue 2 of Nonplayer. With my shoulder back in shape, my work-days are approaching their former length. But I'm comically late -- my milestone schedule mocked me today with the words "End Nonplayer #2." The drastic inaccuracy of that prediction would be funny if it didn't also trigger shortness of breath and a cold sweat. It feels like I'm failing. In slow motion. In public.

But I have to keep reminding myself: the only way to fail is to stop. All the predictions of doom and gloom, the retailers wailing about betrayal, the publisher bemoaning the loss of sales, the general sense of having been forgotten -- it's all immaterial, as long as I don't stop.

You may not see me, but I'm out there somewhere in the dark right now, pedaling. And knowing that there are other folks out there on their own stretches of lonely road, putting away the miles -- that's just about the greatest comfort there is right now. That, and this video.

18 comments:

People who follow your work will sick with you no matter how long it takes. Others will flock to your story when it shows up. I feel that, know matter what you're feeling about the deadlines flying by, you ultimately have to focus on the story you want to tell. So try not to worry about it. Just relax and create. The rest will happen.

I've been reading your blog almost since the beginning. I'm a screenwriter trying to develop my own comic book after floundering around the edge of Hollywood for a few years. Your struggle has been a cautionary tale at times, but I've watched you push through to do some incredible things. You remind us that we're all human but also capable of doing incredible things. You inspire me with every post. Keep it up.

Dude, you are awesome and I love the cycling metaphor...except the part about the number pedal strokes to go the same distance as Lance. Let's face it, if you are floundering in hilly stage of the TDF, you are not going to be riding in the exact same gear ratio as Lance. You'll be working in quite a few more pedal strokes per mile in an easier gear. :) Keep on keeping on.

Well, we all understand why things are slow. You had a major accident, and a long recovery process. I read Nonplayer #1 earlier this year before your accident, and I can't stop thinking about it. It is such a beautiful piece of work. I know it will take a while for #2, but I know that it will be worth it. Your work speaks for itself, and you have not been forgotten.